


Dorne's Beacon

by Alzerak



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Death, Crack Treated Seriously, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Licking, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 11:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19005007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alzerak/pseuds/Alzerak
Summary: Because he's got nothing better to do, Lord Commander Jon Snow embarks on an epic trip for some groceries and finds more than he bargained for.





	Dorne's Beacon

**Author's Note:**

> This is borne from a prompt where Jon sees the Wolf Bits in Dorne and figuratively (and quite probably literally), creams his pants. I sort of took the humour away from the Jonsa content and tried to make their relationship more serious and leave the humourous elements to other areas of the story.

Jon Snow was in a terrible, no good, very bad mood. 

Of course, if anyone had asked, Jon would not have told them that he had been in a bad mood for months. He especially would not have told them that his bad mood stretched back to the time he left - well, he would enter a championship level of self-denial, and his bad mood would worsen, if his glare wasn’t enough to scare one off, then Jon himself would take it upon himself to stalk off into his chambers of the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch.

Only a couple of beings seemed to call Jon out on the dark cloud he brought upon them - his old friend, Tormund Giantsbane - who Jon travelled alongside as he led his people back beyond the wall. After a few months, Jon, who suppressed his feelings through hard work and strong drink, seemed happier, and indeed he was, but Tormund saw through Jon’s false tranquillity, and made the mistake of referencing a certain someone residing in Winterfell, and Jon left the conversation and the Free Folk with a pout. Ghost followed along with him, in Jon’s mind, only tagging along to pointedly acknowledge Jon’s foolishness.

There wasn’t much to do at the Wall, and to add to Jon’s annoyance, although nominally the Night’s Watch was under the authority of the Six Kingdoms, most of the correspondence came from the Independent Queendom of the North. Jon, who was Lord Commander as no one else seemed interested in the job, was lax in his duties of making decisions alongside the representatives from the North, and instead, put his effort into ‘nothing work’ as some pointed out behind his back - hard work that was better off in the hands of other men, not leaders like Jon - though Jon would claim that he wasn’t really a leader, and indeed, without him taking any initiative, there didn’t seem to be much point to the organisation Jon nominally led, other than being a place for out of place misfits like himself.

And then there were the nightmares. Most of the time, they were truly horrifying - a city on fire, instead of air and snow, ash, and the burning, skeletal remains of being with vivid red hair. But relatively recently, the dreams took a turn for the absurd - Jon himself, but on a far bigger scale, bleeding from his mouth, oceans of blood pouring from his orifices and drowning the world. Jon first of all thought it was a manifestation of his guilt, the blood on his hands, but after a sleepless night in the meagre library of Castle Black, and Jon falling asleep on a book open to a page about fruits of Southern Westeros, Jon felt the nightmares stop.

They returned after a few weeks, and Jon felt he had to do something, so when one of the rare reports from Kings Landing arrived, a missive from Tyrion Lannister who made inane small talk as though Jon were any friend of his, mentioning a rich citrus harvest in Dorne, Jon decided that to get his mind off of things, he’d go to Dorne to negotiate a personal shipment of citrus to Castle Black - after all, there was nothing else to do.

Oddly enough, his nightmares of absurdity seemed to stop after that decision, but his trip was odd in of itself. Some days, travel was either impossible, or a change in the weather or an odd mechanical failure set Jon back. Other days, the journey was smooth, or even a favourable wind unusual for the season cut the time down by a few day. Jon eventually learned to accept the oddities, and he was now, finally, at his destination, walking through the Water Gardens of Dorne. Jon had to admit that even in the hotter area of the world, in clothing unsuited to the environment, they had their charm, though he was glad for his Wolf’s sake that he left Ghost behind, setting him loose beyond the wall before he left.

Jon noticed eyes on him, his furs and stern Northern bearing marking him as an obvious outsider. Jon wryly thought of the irony that technically, he was Dornish.

As he was led by an aide to his meeting place, Jon saw a flash of vivid red in the corner of his eye, and turned his head and everything, except his feet, stopped.

 

 

In the middle of a fruitful conversation with Prince Tymeon of Dorne, Queen Sansa Stark was disturbed by a loud splash. Sansa instantly saw a person in heavy furs under the water. Sansa, had she not personally crafted warmer-weather uniforms that her person guard wore with a tremendous amount of pride, thanks to a generous gift from Prince Tymeon that Sansa also used to craft attire that she wore herself on this important economic mission to Dorne, would have thought that the fur-cladded figure was _an idiot,_ and more importantly, _her northern idiot._ Still, poor choices of attire notwithstanding, Sansa instantly dived in after the fool - after all, anyone who wore furs in the desert probably couldn’t swim - uncaring about how the delicate fabrics would be soaked and possibly damaged by the ordeal.

 

Aided by the Prince and his aides, Sansa dragged the coughing and sputtering individual out of the pool, and her heart nearly stopped.

She registered in the periphery of her conciousness her guard exchange looks with each other as their Queen stood frozen, but some more people, crowded around them all. Prince Tymeon was effusive in both thanks and apologies, which snapped Sansa out of her reverie. 

 

“Your grace, if you’d like a moment to adjourn…” Prince Tymeon offered graciously, politely referencing her attire, which was soaked and clinging to her curves. Normally, Sansa, who had pushed her own comfort zone even wearing the lighter clothing inspired by Dornish fashion, felt a surge of bravery and decided that if there was any moment she could take a step to help herself heal from the terrible trauma she suffered from others mistreating her body, it might have been in the middle of strangers in Dorne, strangers who hopefully were not intimately aware of the reasons that scars criss-crossed her body. 

”I did prepare myself had the opportunity for a dip in your pools opened up.” Sansa feigned a lightness of heart as she spoke. “It seems it came early,” she joked. “But there’s no need to delay.” So, with a bravado Sansa drew from inside herself, along with another, unidentified emotion, Sansa removed her wet garb, leaving only her most private areas covered.

Instantly, Sansa felt this was a mistake, as she heard tittering from the men and women in the background and periphery. And then the worst happened, a gasp from nearby - a gasp from _Jon._ Fortunately, Prince Tymeon did not acknowledge the horrors that marred her body, and Sansa welcomed the distraction of matters of state that she occupied her mind with.

 

 

The Dornish night was warm, and Sansa felt it unusual to be comfortable in such light garb even as the sticky heat was counteracted by the cool breeze flowing through the open window. Though the actual meeting was another rousing success, even if Sansa did think so herself, and she would return to the North with another piece of good news for her people, a favourable trade route directly with Dorne, a route that would open up favourable opportunities for further trade with Essos and the Free Folk beyond the Wall, Sansa felt that the day had been a personal disaster. She felt shamed by the reactions that _Jon_ , now, Sansa could not lie to herself - _it was Jon’s reaction that hurt -_ she could handle random strangers gawking, but Jon’s acknowledgement of her brokenness was a dagger to her heart. And Sansa had no one to talk with - her guards were loyal, she even knew their families and knew she had their respect, but they were not her bosom friends that she could confide her deepest feelings with. _I have no one,_ Sansa thought, as she took another drink of the Dornish sweetwine Prince Tymeon had gifted. _I left Brienne to protect my brother, and everyone else left me._

 

Before she could chastise herself for thinking such selfish, unqueenly thoughts, she was disturbed by the gentle knock and soft voice of one of her guards.

 

“Your Grace, the man you saved is here, he wishes to see you.”

Sansa could not deny that she wished to see Jon, despite everything - she could give him a piece of her mind. Quickly swallowing the rest of the contents of her goblet, Sansa commanded her guard to allow her visitor in.

 

Now that Jon was there, it seemed that words failed them both. Sansa yearned to run and embrace him, her body treacherously betraying her own anger towards Jon. Nevertheless, neither moved, and it was only when Sansa noticed that Jon was clearly so disgusted with her that he not only wasn’t looking at her body, covered with a lighter set of Dornish nightwear, but not even at her, that she snapped.

 

“Why are you here, Jon?” she demanded, the unfairness of how she’d been treated adding a bite to her tone.

 

“I - I wanted to thank you.” Immediately, Sansa was regretful with the shortness of her temper. “I didn’t feel it right to leave without - well, without thanking you. You didn’t have to…” Jon trailed off, and Sansa felt another surge of righteous anger - the fool didn’t realise that she could not allow him to come to any harm any more than she could allow herself. In pleasant circumstances, she would respond with a ‘You’re welcome’ in a pleasant tonality of complete obviousness. If she were obstinate, she would repeat the words in a tone designed to end the conversation, but Sansa dreaded the thought that such an end to this conversation would be an end to _any conversation, any interaction of any kind,_ with Jon.

So Sansa responded acerbically. “So now you felt it was wrong to leave….”

 

For the first time, Jon looked her in the eye, and Sansa did not know how to process how she felt about that, so she distracted herself by pouring some wine into a goblet and thrusting it at Jon, who gingerly stepped forward as though he were a hare about to bolt away, and cautiously accepted the offering Sansa made. “We’ll both need it.” Sansa prophesied, pouring another generous portion into her own goblet.

 

Taking a fortifying gulp, Sansa began to speak, the wine and her own trust in Jon, despite what had happened, spurring her on.

 

“You left me, Jon. After everything that happened, after everything we’d been through together, after you promised that we’d be together, _you left.”_ Sansa hiccuped involuntarily - she would _not_ show weakness, she was a Queen, and there was no room for weakness. “You left me, and - and I know I betrayed you, I know you had to heal, but I wanted to be there for you as I needed you to be there for me - we were - you were my -” Sansa struggled for the right. “You’re my Jon.” Sansa felt a hot flush surge through her body at the terminology she had accidentally used, hoping that Jon wasn’t perceptive enough to pick up on the meaning Sansa had let slip. “And we were supposed to be a pack.”

 

Sansa paused to gather herself, but Jon did not respond, and Sansa felt another surge of terror creep through. Jon was supposed to passionately respond, his blood raised, feeling the the injustice of her words rankle against his heart. She wished to inspire him to speak out, but Jon seemed to mutely agree with her, nodding along in depressive self-loathing.

 

“I know it is early, I am still young.” Sansa added, slinking down on the foot of her bed. “And the North is still in the midst of winter, and so survival is of the foremost concern. However, I have to be cognisant of the future, and I know I will have to have to produce heirs - don’t get me started on Tyrion’s folly - I don’t know what Bran was thinking making him Hand - the stability of the North requires a continued line of succession. Although it is my duty, I wished that someone would-”

Tears stung at Sansa’s eyes and she forced them back as she hung her head. She heard Jon move closer, but he seemed unable or unwilling to close the gap further. _I wish that someone would love me._ Sansa thought to herself.

 

“I know it is conceited of me to care about my appearance, and I _know_ that it is not my fault I am hideous to behold, but I had hoped that I would be able to shed some of my fears for the inevitable time I would have to lay with a man by laying myself bear in a less stressful environ. I could handle the murmurs and jeers of strangers.” Sansa paused.

Jon spoke, his voice dry and full of a strange depth of emotion. “They - they were not talking about you, Sansa.”

Jon spoke with an earnestness that Sansa had come to love, and even the timbre with which he spoke her name, a depth of feeling bordering on _reverence,_ Sansa felt reverberate throughout her body. Quashing those feelings down, Sansa continued.

 

“I could handle all that, but you - after everything, after I sent letters unreplied to you at the wall, after I sent an official pardon, after I sent an unofficial pardon, and you never replied - even _Tormund_ came to visit and called me Queen, not his Queen, of course, but you made me feel like I was not even worthy of the barest hint of acknowledgement - you did not even speak when you saw me, and the first thing I hear from is that sound of disgust. I know I am unpleasant to behold, but try as though I might, as vain as it is to try, I cannot remove my scars. They are a part of me, and I _needed you_ to not see me as something broken, but all you were saw were my scars.”

 

Sansa felt her eyes begin to well up with tears, and Jon’s hand swung up as though he wished to gently swipe the tears away from her eyes, but his fist clenched and he lowered it.

 

“I didn’t.” Jon said, and as Sansa looked up, she saw Jon’s head turned away, down at the ground. He didn’t even have the courtesy to look her in the eye when he lied.

 

“Don’t lie!” Sansa snapped through her tears. “Of course you saw them, they were everywhere and I _know_ you were looking at me!”

 

Finally, Jon looked her in the eye, and Sansa saw the anguish written across his face as he spoke.

 

“Sansa, please don’t.”

 

But Sansa could not stop the course of fate and destiny even if she wished, and words were not even necessary as she realised, with a shock, that Jon spoke truthfully, and in his mind, the truth was far more horrible than the lie he was protesting against committing.

 

Sansa stepped forward, their bodies closer than they had ever been since that day in Kings Landing. Jon swallowed.

 

“I didn’t notice a single one.” Jon gulped in a horror-stricken admission. “Forgive me, Sansa, please forgive me.”

 

There was absolutely no lie in Jon’s eyes, only truth in his words, and he even seemed filled with shame at not noticing her scars, and Sansa racked her brain as to _why_ that would horrify him

 

And then she realised, and before she could stop herself, months, _years,_ of emotions, poured out and Sansa launched herself at Jon, crashing her lips against his in a teeth-clattering connection. Jon instantly responded, his fingers carding through her hair as he responded with more passion and vigour than Sansa had seen since he’d left for Dragonstone.

 

“Sansa,” Jon murmured against her lips and a hot thrill shot through Sansa’s body, but her mind had caught up with her actions, and she shoved Jon away, a surge of guilt roiling through her. _Jon had twice been at the mercy of women with power over him, now Sansa herself had added her name to the list. Jon had no one - he had come to Dorne alone, and Sansa was ashamed that even her own experiences with unwanted attentions from Lord Baelish did not stop her from assaulting Jon where he was powerless to stop her._

 

“Oh, fuck this shit!”

 

A stunned silence followed the outburst. Poor Samwell Tarly looked like he was going to burst into tears, and it was the Hand of the King who responded to his liege’s outburst.

 

“Your Grace?”

 

Brandon Stark, King of the Six Kingdoms, rolled his eyes as everyone, with the exception of the Master of Coin, _Bronn_ , seemed shocked at his choice of language.

 

“Talk about how you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.” Bran groused. 

 

Tyrion Lannister, however, was reaching the end of his patience. “Your Grace,” Tyrion began. “We have been trying to be accommodating to your, shall we say, _unusual_ style of governance, and you have not been a terrible King, although that is not much of a compliment after your predecessors. However, it would be helpful if you were to make a better effort to make matters easier for us all!” Tyrion snapped.

 

King Bran’s face went typically blank, and he responded in a monotone. “How so, Lord Tyrion?”

 

“First off, you might take us back in doors. Why does the small council meet in the open air? It is neither ideal for us nor for the paper we bring.”

 

“We shall return to the indoors soon enough.” Bran replied. Tyrion just frowned at him, but Ser Davos Seaworth spoke up to steer the conversation back to matters of statecraft.

 

“I’m sure His Grace has a reason for keeping us outside, as I’m sure there is a reason for His Grace to spend time in contemplation whilst we run the Six Kingdoms.”

 

“Well, running the Six Kingdoms is a big hassle.” Tyrion interjected. “Many of us are concerned that there won’t be Six Kingdoms for very long - your decision to allow the North to secede opened up a can of worms.”

 

“It was not my choice.” Bran responded. “It just was.”

 

“I’m afraid Yara Greyjoy won’t see it that way.” Tyrion remarked smartly.

 

“Oh, she will.” Bran replied, levelling his eyes at Tyrion with a dark gravitas. “She has been, when I reminded her that she made an enemy of the most powerful independent Kingdom in Westeros when she threatened Jon Snow, and that _her people_ were the last to invade that Kingdom, and who is to say they will decide that they do not wish to risk such a thing happening again. I also mentioned the large, _fully grown Dragon_ flying around Planetos that might decide to pay the Iron Islands a visit. I _gave_ that woman her independent Kingdom, and she _refused.”_

Tyrion’s eyes widened slightly, but the darkness had left Bran. 

 

“Now I can return to watching Incest Porn, although is it really incest porn if it is cousins?” Bran questioned to no one in particular. “It’s like it doesn’t even count,” Bran grumbled. “At any rate, the moment is over, so I’ll find something else to do.”

 

Bran looked over at his council, to man, they looked horrified.

 

“Why are you so shocked? Didn’t this whole War of the Five Kingdoms start because I watched a brother and sister get it on?” Bran shook his head, trusting that the simpletons of the small council would not call him out on that lack of the whole truth. _Fucking Jon and Sansa better fix their shit by the time he got back to them, but there were other matters at hand in the mean time._ “You should have know what you were getting in to before you made me King.”

 

 

“I’m so sorry, Jon!” Sansa exclaimed as she took in Jon’s form as he panted against the wall she had shoved him towards. She was ashamed that her body still reacted to Jon’s handsomeness when she should only be feeling disgust with herself. “I forced myself on you and took from you again…”

 

Jon’s eyes softened and he moved forward to gently cup her jaw and softly place a gentle kiss to her lips. “Sweetest one.” Jon burred. “You cannot take what is freely given.” 

 

“Truly?” Sansa asked, pouring out her vulnerability.

 

“Truly.” Jon affirmed. “I have loved you for years.” At Sansa’s questioning tilt of her head. “I did not feel worthy of you, even as family. I was a a fool, Sansa. Can you ever forgive me?”

 

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Sansa cried, but her tears were of happiness, of relief, of love and of hope. She leaned forward, smiling, to capture Jon’s lips once again.

 

Jon’s arms wrapped around her, and Sansa felt loved, felt protected, as though she were the most precious thing in the world to the one holding her, the most precious thing in the world to Jon. Sansa revelled in the freedom she’d never been allowed to have with a partner before, who had only _taken, taken, taken_ , and kissed along Jon’s jawline, who made a valiant effort to stand steady, and Sansa was thrilled that this steadiness indicated not a lack of desire, but an effort to hold his own desire in check for her.

 

“You can touch me, Jon.” Sansa whispered into the shell of Jon’s ear, trusting that he would be gentle, that he would understand her wishes and respond to her signals.

 

Sansa rubbed her hands against Jon’s back atop the Dornish tunic he had been given, though she felt there was too much between their skin. She mouthed at Jon’s neck as he buried his nose into the side of her face, murmuring his love for her sweet-smelling hair. Sansa sucked on a pulse point in his neck as Jon rubbed up and down her back. Even in the midst of their passionate embrace, half-woozy from drink, and with her half-undressed, Jon was a gentleman and his hand did not go below her back. Sansa was grateful that Jon allowed her take matters at her own pace, and Sansa pulled back to put her fingers at the laces, looking at Jon with a querying gaze. At his nod, Sansa kissed him once again, her fingers deftly moving and undoing the laces of his tunic as though they were made to do so. Feeling bold, Sansa swiped her tongue past their lips and Jon welcomed it into his mouth as his own hands joined hers in an effort to rid himself of his troublesome attire so much faster.

 

Sansa reluctantly broke away but could not resist smiling as she leaned back to peck his lips once, twice, thrice before they finally removed the pesky tunic; Jon’s shirt loosely lying on his muscular chest. Sansa gently guided Jon around so she faced her bed.

 

“Jon, will you allow me to take my own pace, please?”

 

Jon cradled her face more delicately than Sansa had ever been touched before. “Sansa, darling, you have total control. Whatever you wish, however you wish it, if I can provide it, then it shall be. Should you wish to stop, we shall stop.”

 

Sansa nodded mutely, fearing her emotions would betray her If she spoke, and Jon allowed himself to be gently sat upon the bed as Sansa ran her fingers through his unruly curls, kissing him soundly. Even kisses had an effect on Sansa’s body, and she felt her tips of her breasts tighten and a pleasant buzz move through her body, but instead of it being a momentary feeling, it seemed to endure the more she felt Jon’s hands rubbing against her as she kissed him.

 

Sansa moved her hands under his shirt, and Jon groaned into her mouth as she moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, and her lips followed the path her hands took, and she kissed down his breastbone, and back up across his chest. His scars, which Sansa had looked at but not seen so close, were a vivid reminder of both the betrayals he had suffered at the bravery he had shown all his life. Sansa began to cry as the thought that, were it not for the random mercies of merciless gods, she might never have seen him again.

 

Jon instantly noticed her distress, and reached up for her. “Lovely girl, what is wrong?”

 

“Please hold me, Jon.” Sansa cried, burying herself into Jon’s soft yet strong embrace. She calmed herself by listening to Jon’s strong heartbeat, his chest beating steadily against hers, a sign that their lives together were not at an end, but a beginning. Sansa felt that her stirrings were not diminished despite what just occurred, and hoped that Jon would be understanding.

 

Sansa wrung her hands as she moved away. “Jon, I’m sorry for ruining the mood - but, could we continue, please?”

 

Instead of embracing her, or cradling her face, Jon reached for her hands and Sansa reached back. “Sansa, please don’t ever feel you need to hide your feelings from me, even - especially in these matters, we owe ourselves the truth. This is a partnership, and I love you, and that means all of you, Sansa, your feelings especially. If you wish to continue, I am more than able and willing to do so as well.”

 

And Jon spoke truly, the moment returned with ease as Sansa felt the tingle in her core increase, and she craved friction as Jon scooted further up the bed, and as she began to rub her core against Jon’s thigh as they kissed, she felt his jaw tighten, and one and move to cup her arse, whilst allowing to to maintain control over the pace.

 

For some reason, Jon seemed more and more uneasy as Sansa continued to rub against him, his left hand that had been rubbing along her back and stroking her cheek grasping at her bedcovers. Sansa slowed.

 

“I’m sorry, Jon. I was too concerned about my own feelings that I neglected to consider yours.” Sansa relied on her courtesies to make amends. “After all, this should be a partnership, so please tell me your wishes too. I noticed you felt uncomfortable with my actions.” Sansa clarified.

 

To her surprise, Jon laughed. “I wasn’t uncomfortable - you were bringing me undone, sweet girl, and I was trying to last as long as possible. I realise that my dreams were borne of my own arrogance, believing I could last.” Jon paused, and flushed as his mind seemed to catch up to his mouth.

 

“You dreamed of this?” Sansa asked quietly. “Of me?” All of the sudden, her clothing, light as they were, seemed constrictive, oppressive, but Sansa resisted the urge to claw them off.

 

Jon nodded.

 

“Would you tell me about them.” Sansa asked. “What did you want?”

 

He had said that they owed themselves the truth, and if he could not lie to himself, he could not lie to Sansa. “I loved you.” Jon spoke truthfully, yet said everything and nothing. “And you loved me. We loved each other.”

 

“A beautiful thought.” Sansa responded, her cheeks blooming with a deepening reddish colour. “But how? What did you desire? What is your desire?”

 

“Many things. But Sansa, I do not wish to force things upon you, even by words. What do _you_ desire?”

 

“I think - I think I wish for you to be inside me - but, but not quite yet, I don’t think I’m quite ready yet.” Sansa confessed. Jon was looking up at her with something akin to awe.

 

“You’re so brave, you’re so beautiful. I imagined kissing you, sweet Sansa,”

 

“Kissing me?” Sansa interrupted, her eyes hooded.

 

“Kissing you everywhere.” Jon continued. “Kissing you everywhere and anywhere you’d allow to me kiss.” 

 

Jon began to kiss Sansa’s exposed skin as she rubbed against him, her wanton moans exciting rather than repelling him, encouraging him to continue. “I would save the sweetest morsels for last, and kiss your teats all over, before I would suck at your nipples, and then I would move down your body, and sup at your most precious place.”

 

“Jon!” Sansa groaned as she rubbed herself on Jon’s leg and hardness, yearning for release. 

 

She stood. “Would you mind terribly if we reversed the order of your fantasy? I feel as though I am being pulled taut, and I cannot find a release to the tension.”

 

Jon’s eyes darkened. “You offer my heart’s desire and ask if it is a burden.” Jon said in wonderment. Sansa moved to lie down next to him.

 

“Sweet girl, what are you doing?” Jon asked. 

 

Sansa was surprised. “I am ready for you - is this not how it is done?”

 

“That is one way, but you can also seat yourself atop my face, should you desire.” Jon informed her, with eyes darkening even further with lust and love. 

 

“And you desire this too?”

 

“Oh, yes, please, Sansa.” Jon _pleaded,_ and Sansa saw no reason to continue to deny themselves. She shimmied out of her skirt, leaving her loose silk shift on, and pulled down her undergarments, looking on as Jon watched her with eyes blown dark and wide. 

She straddled his body and shifted herself so that her most private place rested above his mouth, and then lowered herself.

 

She had been touched by other men - by Grand Maester Pycelle, who had pretending his pawing was borne of medical concern, by Ramsay, who’d never presumed that she was anything but his to torment, but Jon’s tongue seemed to cleanse her of that horrible negativity, she could now remember a man bringing her exquisite pleasure instead of excruciating agony, and a thrill shot through Sansa as Jon seemed pleased, moaning against her, the rumble of his voice sending a shot through her spine which made her roll herself against his beard, the sensation simulating her arousal yet further.

 

Jon continued to lick around her centre, lapping up the juices as she gripped the headboard of her bed and ground her cunt into his face, but Jon responded to her wanton movements with delight, dipping his tongue into her cunny for the first time, eliciting a shriek of pleasure from Sansa’s mouth. Momentarily embarrassed that her guards surely heard her, Sansa soon forgot about her concerns as Jon eagerly thrust his tongue inside her cunny as she writhed against him. His hands lay it his side as much as he yearned to touch her, giving her total freedom to do as she wished. 

After the tension continued to mount - her previous tightness a distant memory, Sansa, queen though she was, did not feel it beneath herself to beg, calling Jon’s name as he quickened the pace in which her lips, mouth and tongue tasted her cunt, before he granted her mercy when his lips kissed around the button at the top of her cunny, and Sansa peaked, Jon name shattering against the Dornish night.

 

Sansa shifted down, and looked down at Jon smiling up at her, her own juices glistening on his beard, before he took the initiative and leaned up to kiss her soundly. Sansa found that she did not mind her own taste, especially when it was delivered via Jon’s lips and mouth. To bolster her own courage, she reached back to palm the hardness she had felt earlier, and Jon hissed as she touched him even through his breeches. 

 

“Sansa, you don’t have to do that.” Jon said, as of course he would, though his body betrayed him by bucking up into her hand as she cupped his hardening manhood through his clothing.

 

“Jon, please.” Sansa responded. _She needed this. It was more than just a healing experience for the past - Sansa felt like she craved to feel Jon for Jon alone, beyond anything else._

And Jon seemed to crave her too, lifting himself off the bed to allow Sansa to pull his breeches and underclothes down and off of him, which neatly folded and placed on the table. She turned back to see an unusual juxtaposition - Jon smiling fondly at her, whilst his hard cock jutted up from wiry black curls. It was unfair to compare him to a dead monster, but Sansa remembered the terror and expectation of pain she would have when Ramsay forced her to see him; but with Jon, similar in size, perhaps a little larger, there was no such sense of dread, just _anticipation_ , a certainty that he would fit perfectly inside her once the time came, and they would guide each other to that time together.

 

Sansa perched herself and sat on the bed, before reaching out to grasp Jon’s manhood, gently swiping her thumb over the purplish head. Jon bucked into her hand.

 

“Sensitive.” Jon explained as she looked over, and Sansa nodded, surprised at her own fascination and she gently stroked up and down and Jon’s toes and fingers curled. Sansa turned to see Jon’s eyes closed, his face screwed up tightly.

 

“Am I doing it wrong?” Sansa enquired, slowly down her ministrations to a gentle up and down motion.

 

“No!” Jon replied. “It’s just - the way you’re sitting…”

 

Sansa was puzzled. She did not realise that was a factor.

 

“You’re sitting like a lady would. I - I dreamed of this. I am trying not to spend before I should.”

 

“You dreamed of this?”

 

“You name, sweet lady, and I dreamed it. I can name a half-dozen versions of you sitting in that pose, sometimes you are fully dressed, sometimes you are partially dressed. Sometimes,” Jon confessed. “You wear nothing at all, or nothing covering your modesty. I have the same variances in my state of dress. Sometimes we are even outdoors, a sunny day in the meadow, and you are there by my side, pumping my cock. Oftentimes, we talk about matters completely unrelated to what we are doing - on happier imaginings, happier times where we need only concern ourself with simple, good, honest matters.”

 

Sansa licked her drying lips with a coy smile. “If you have imagined it all, perhaps it would be best to just allow yourself to let go. After all, it seems like there’s something you enjoy doing that doesn’t require your cock…”

 

“I also wish to avoid frightening you, My Lady.” Truly, Sansa was his Queen, should she accept him, but Jon deduced correctly that Sansa would be pleased with the term he used.

 

“Thank you, Jon.” Sansa replied earnestly, before considering. “Perhaps if you were distracted, you would be less likely to spend…”

 

Jon nodded eagerly. “Yes, that is a good idea, I -”

But Sansa’s bright idea seemed helpless against the twin forces of Jon’s arousal and her own innocent sexuality, so when she straddled him, her cunt near Jon’s face, Jon took the time to warn her.

 

“I will try to warn you if I’m about to spend, but my voice may be muffled, your Grace.”

 

Sansa laughed, finding an unexpected ease in the happenings she had not expected. Jon took the time to look at Sansa’s most private area for the first time, his cock twitching as he noticed she neatly trimmed her vivid red curls to leave her cunny bare for his tongue. Jon took a moment to register the countless scars, nicks and bite marks on her thighs, if only to determine that he would endeavour to make any thoughts of such in both their minds melt away, so they would never be noticed again. Sansa began slowly pumping her hands up and down his cock, and he noticed fresh drops of liquid appearing on Sansa’s cunt.

 

“Dearest girl, are you pleased to touch my cock?” Jon asked, feeling more aroused than ever that _Sansa_ was wet because of giving him pleasure. 

 

“Yes, Jon.” Sansa responded with a breathy moan, moving her hand up and down his cock at a faster rate. 

 

“May I touch you, Sansa.” Sansa breathed, as though waiting for Jon to clarify. “May I lick your cunt? May I place my fingers in your cunny?” 

 

“Please.” Sansa sighed, and Jon obliged, running a single finger up and down her folds, before dipping it into her precious centre, the breathy gasps and her back arching off the bed told Jon that Sansa was pleased. She began to pump his cock harder than ever, his skin moving up and over the head, quickening his release. Sansa was glorious as she moved above him, her long red hair flowing in waves down her back, and Jon added another finger, hooking up into Sansa’s cunt as she began to ride his digits in earnest. After a minute or so, Jon felt his cock was about to burst, and Sansa showed both mercy and torment by stopping, before flicking her hair over her shoulder as she turned to look over her other shoulder at Jon.

 

“May I take your cock in my mouth, Jon?” Sansa asked. “Please.”

 

“Gods, _yes._ ” Jon answered in a haze of lust. He still had the wherewithal to add “I may spill the moment you do.”

 

Sansa did not instantly take him into her mouth, but instead delivered what he’d promised her, placing gentle and light kisses up and down his shaft. Never one to allow himself to be upstaged in that area, Jon moved his hands to softly play around Sansa’s clit, using his mouth and tongue to pleasure her sweet, wet cunt.

 

Sansa pressed a kiss to the head of his cock and Jon felt for certain he was done for, but held out as Sansa delicate placed her mouth around the head of his cock, before slowly moving down. She got half way before she decided that was enough, and moved back up, tortuously slowly, before she repeated the process, going deeper and further the next few times. On the firth pass, she hollowed her cheeks and began to suck, causing Jon to buck slightly. Sansa felt more tingling in her cunny as Jon lapped at her, her clitoris zinging as the tip of his tongue faintly touched against her as it dipped in and and out of her centre. Jon seemed determined that she would peak a second time before she could coax his first release out of him, so Sansa tried harder, taking his cock deeper into her mouth and sucking fervently, but Jon reached his goal first, his ministrations to her cunny driving Sansa to moan around Jon’s cock as her second peak took her, her cunt convulsing and spasming around his fingers. 

 

“Sansa!” Jon groaned in warning. “I do not know if I have it in me to recover if I spill now.”

 

Reluctantly, Sansa released Jon’s cock from her mouth, turning to straddle and kiss him as he moved to sit higher on her bed. _This was the moment_ , Sansa thought to herself, removing the outer sleeves of her Dornish nightwear. This was not a shift with buttons, instead, she lowered her sleeveless gown over her shoulders, keeping her breasts concealed for the time being. Once her arms were out of the sleeves, she took a fortifying breath, and allowed the garment to fall and expose her breasts to Jon’s gaze.

Truly, her teats were not as marred by scars as her abdomen was, but Sansa was apprehensive still. She could not see Jon’s reacting to the scars on her legs as he lapped at her cunt, but now she could see every reaction that he made, from the moaning of her name to the stillness and silence as he just stared to, seemingly unable to comprehend the abilities he possessed as a living being.

 

“Are my teats pleasing?” Sansa asked nervously. Jon did not respond instantly, but drew Sansa up close to him, thrilling her as her nipples pressed against the hardness of his chest.

 

Jon kissed up her jawline and Sansa momentarily thought he meant to distract her from his displeasure at the sight of her teats, but then he rumbled in her ear.

 

“I like the Wolf Bit.”

 

Fuelled with an immense courage, Sansa removed her garment, Jon’s cock twitched helplessly as her breasts bounced as the garment passed over her, but Sansa was vulnerable and Jon took the time to see the scars on her body.

 

Sansa was used to men looking at her as though she was appealing to the eyes, lust and possessiveness in their gaze boiling her nausea and disgust in her belly. But Jon looked at her with love and reverence and admiration - even his lust and possessiveness eliciting positive emotions from Sansa. Still, her courage could only last so far.

“I could cover them, should you wish.” Sansa offered. “You don’t need to see…”

 

“Sansa Stark.” Jon began earnestly. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon, but that is not why I love you. I love you for your compassion, for your bravery, and your wisdom. I love that after everything you’ve been through, you still believe in a just world and do your best to achieve it, even for those who have wronged you. You are truly the daughter of Lord Ned and Lady Catelyn, and _they would be so proud of the woman you’ve become._ I do not wish to diminish your pain, but I barely notice any marks in comparison to _you._ I will look to your face, your smile, _your eyes,_ whither or not you take your pleasure. I will kiss your body, scars and all. If you will me to avoid them, so I shall. If you desire for me to kiss away the pain, I shall do that also. I will treat your body, scars and all, as _you,_ Sansa, because I love you, and I am so sorry I was too cowardly to show you before.”

 

Jon was despondent to see Sansa begin to weep above him, the absolute last thing he ever wished to see Sansa do. 

 

“I’m so sorry, love, was that too much?”

 

Sansa shook her head quickly, her blue eyes glistening as she blinking with tears. “No, Jon, I’m happy.” Sansa smiled, and it gladdened Jon’s heart. “I never thought I’d ever be loved for _me._ ”

 

“Cherised one, you are so very easy to love. Besides, if you weren’t literally the most beautiful creature in existence, I’m still pretty enough for the both of us. Tormund says so.”

 

Sansa’s watery laugh is a joyous signal to Jon. “Well, I don’t want to make a liar out of Tormund, do I?” Sansa responds as she wipes away the last of her tears.

 

“I think I’m ready, Jon.” Sansa says quietly, dipping her fingers in her folds. Her eyes blow wide open when Jon takes her fingers into his mouth and gently sucks on her glistening fingertips.

 

“Unless you wish for me to love you right this moment.” Jon answers. “I wish for you to be _more_ than ready.”

 

“Okay.” Sansa nods shakily, “But I must say I acquiesce under protestations.” She jokes.

 

“Well.” Sansa gulps, still learning how to speak of her own desires.. “This is your fantasy now, kissing me all over, I believe it was… A most agreeable idea to myself.” 

 

Jon shifted her pillows and sat Sansa on her bed by the headboard. Just Sansa sitting there, hands neatly folded, the very picture of lady-like posture, were it not for her pink-tipped breasts jutting out from her chest, or the thatch of red curls that lead between her folded legs. Even her face; wide, blue eyes, soft, pink cheeks and deep red lips, framed by waves of gorgeous red locks, flowing down, kissing her nipples do nothing to ease the ache in Jon’s cock, and Jon feels the need to _show her_ what she does to him, so he takes himself in hand in full view, stroking up and down his cock. Her sweet mouth parts at this, her pink tongue darting to wet her lips, and she _thrusts_ out her chest, displaying her breasts further to his gaze, her cunny tingling with the attention Jon is giving her. 

 

“Spread your legs, sweet girl.” Jon commands, and whines when Sansa obeys, leaning back against the pillows, her cunny lips blossoming with her arousal. “Play with yourself, my lady.”

 

Jon wonders where this courage to command Sansa, _the Queen,_ comes from, but Sansa seems to enjoy this play, dipping her hand to play with her cunt as the other cups her breasts and pinches her nipples, Jon slowing his own strokes down against all his urges to stave off his inevitable explosion for as long as possible.

 

“Have you played with yourself before, my lady?” Jon asks, and Sansa’s eyes shine mischievously in the candlelight. _Tell me about it._ The unspoken addition continues

 

“I am by myself, in the Lords’ Chambers of Winterfell, which of course, is now the Queen’s chambers. I am plagued with wanton dreams of one far away, so I instruct that I am not to be disturbed and bar my door.”

 

Sansa looks at Jon, his cock jutting out as he bites his lip to her slow recounting of her fantasy, and feels her cunt growing wetter as she sees the toned muscles of his forearm as he strokes his cock.

 

“I strip down bare, and neatly fold my dress and underclothes.” Sansa adds, then impishly provides more details to fuel Jon’s lust. “My nipples harden in the slightly frigid air, and my breasts bounce delicately as I step around the room. Finally, I lie down, and I begin to play with myself, avoiding my cunny until the last possible moment, where I cry out the name of the man I love, and he appears, fully dressed, a I peak, my fingers pinching my teats and thrusting into my cunt, in the Stark Cloak I made for him. I see his manhood hard under his garment ‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ I begin to say. ‘Perhaps you can remedy this.’”

 

Jon continues. “We are in the Hot Springs, sitting face to face across a short distance. You are speaking passionately about something important, and I am a depraved bastard thinking despicable thoughts about his _sister_ , but I cannot stop, they _never_ stop, those thoughts, and all I can think of is release, despite the fact that you are _right there_ and I can only see your face and the top of your chest, covered by both the water and the shift you wear, it is still enough, _and I begin to stroke my cock_ whilst I make inanities that a simpleton, let alone the smart woman I know would instantly see through. The waters are clear enough, and even if they aren’t, the motion of my shoulder should tip you off, but I cannot help myself. You dive underneath the surface, where if you just _open your eyes_ you will see your own brother taking himself in hand to you, _but through some miracle you don’t notice._ You resurface, and seat yourself atop a rock and take your comb to your hair, as snowflakes gently fall and kiss you. _And you don’t notice that your shift has been left behind, floating on the water,_ but I do, and I buck up and out of the water, my seed exploding across your breasts and nipples.”

 

“What happens next?” Sansa pleads, her fingers frantically dipping into her cunt.

 

“Nothing. I wake up, my smallclothes ruined, and instantly take myself in hand to the memory.” 

 

Jon finally joins Sansa on the bed, and at last, he begins to kiss up the inside of her right leg, before doing the same to the bottom of her left leg. Jon grows ever harder at the arousal wafting up from her cunny, but Jon continues his ministrations, betraying his fantasy to lick at her sweet cunt before moving further up, placing kisses both soft and passionate all over her arms and stomach, and finally, to her breasts, which he cups in his hands, and rubs the pads of his thumbs over her nipples, and then, he kisses her breasts, taking care to avoid her areola until she writhes underneath him. He finally sucks a nipple into his mouth just as his cock makes contact with her cunny for the very first time, but instead of penetrating her cunt’s most treasured place, he guides it up and down her folds, and kisses the tip of his cock against his clit, and Sansa explodes with pleasure, and she is finally ready, flipping him over with ease as Jon allows her to be in charge in the moment, and now it is he who is writhing under her attentions, as she swipes her cunny up and down his cock before reaching down with one hand to guide it inside her cunt and they cry out each other’s names in unison, as Sansa leans down to lick and suck at Jon’s chest and nipples, and back up to his neck and face as she kisses him while she fucks him, while she _makes love to Jon._

 

“Sansa, I’m so close,” Jon begs. “Sansa, please!” 

With Jon so close, she thrusts her breasts towards and her peak shatters through her body as he takes her nipple into his mouth, her cunt trembling around his cock to draw out his seed. Jon’s cock begins to quiver inside her, but Jon’s strong arms lift Sansa off before her cunt can draw out his seed, leaving her cunny throbbing and pulsing on thin air as his seed squirts out in a great gush to coat her breasts.

 

“I did not want to get a bastard on you.” Jon explains. “I want the first time I-”

 

“You will come back to Winterfell with me?” Sansa inquires hopefully.

 

“Aye, my love, if you’ll have me.” Jon replies. “And the first time I spend inside you, you will be my wife, should you wish it.”

 

“I wish it.” Sansa replies tremulously, and Jon kisses her soundly, before she playfully continues. “I imagine there will be plenty of creative solutions we can discover on the journey home. My poor guards!” Sansa laughed.

 

“They deserve it.” Jon grumbled. “Standing out there all proud as punch in their specially crafted, Sansa made uniforms…”

 

Sansa beamed at Jon, and giving Sansa that feeling was Jon’s proudest accomplishment, and he wished to live up to it for the rest of his days.

 

 

“Good for her!” Bran smiled. 

 

Tyrion tapped his fingers on the desk, showing his boredom, not playing along with Bran’s games.

 

“It is nice she’ll be able to remember her first orgasm from her last husband on the same night her first husband tragically perished…” Bran levelled his eyes on Tyrion as a great winged form snatched him up from his seat as the rest of the small council shrieked and hid under the large stone table. “You thought you’d get away with molesting my sister on your wedding night. The North fucking remembers!”

 

“That wasn’t me!” Tyrion protested as Drogon swept around to return to the sea from whence it came.

 

“And this isn’t me.” Bran responded with bare-faced cheek borne from ultimate power. _Yeet him into the Blackwater._ Bran commanded.

 

And Tyrion’s body shattered against the water of the bay, before sinking beneath the dark, black depths.

 

“Not to worry.” Bran laughed at the horror-struck audience before him, turning to Bronn as he did so. “You bowed to Sansa with respect those couple of times. I’m not going to kill you. You are fired though.”

 

Bronn nodded obediently and quickly left his seat and fled the scene before the terrible wrath of Brandon Stark could be visited upon his fiscally irresponsible self. 

 

Above them, a voice broke out in broken High Valyrian. “Lo, bona nyke sagon gaomagon hae iā tool morgho istin arlī! Citizens hen dārys tegorīr, nyke beseech thee, dīnagon iā mōris naejot se tyranny se ossēnagon nyke whence thou hast se chance!”

 

“Do shut up and go home and watch some David Attenborough. Circle of life, bitches.”


End file.
